Spades take up leaves
 No better than spoons,
 And bags full of leaves
 Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise
 Of rustling all day
 Like rabbit and deer
 Running away.

But the mountains I raise
 Elude my embrace,
 Flowing over my arms
 And into my face.

I may load and unload
 Again and again
 Till I fill the whole shed,
 And what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight,
 And since they grew duller
 From contact with the earth,
 Next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use,
 But a crop is a crop,
 And who's to say where
 The harvest shall stop?